


piece of a puzzle known as life

by brodinsons (aeon_entwined)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, Groping, Gyms, M/M, Roughness, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:29:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/pseuds/brodinsons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filling a <b><a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13289.html?thread=8170985#t8170985">prompt</a></b> on the kinkmeme:</p><p>
  <i>Javert is an irritable cop who had been referred to a yoga center for his mood and working too hard and getting on everyone's nerves.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The plan to have Javert loosen up and take his mind off work backfires when he recognizes the hunk leading his classes as none other than the notorious one-time cat burglar Jean Valjean, who used to haunt his dreams back when Javert was a guard in a state pen.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Awkward yoga boners optional.</i>
</p><p>I went a little further with the yoga boners than intended. My most sincere apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sometimes goodbye is a second chance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kickedthehornets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickedthehornets/gifts).



> The exercise described in this fic is one I do myself and was taught by my trainer. (As per usual, I can't recall the name of it for the life of me.)

"Alright, now bend your left leg, keep your foot on the floor."

Javert grunts, still holding the dumbbell straight in the air with his left hand as he stares up at the ceiling. He bends his left leg as instructed, then stretches his right out on the floor at close to a forty-five degree angle from the left.

They've been playing at this for weeks now. Some sort of convoluted game of gay chicken that neither of them seems to be winning. He should've put a stop to it before it even started. Right when he recognized Valjean, that should've been it. He should've packed his shit and found another gym. He shouldn't still be here, religiously attending every class, accepting offers of discounted private sessions which are really thinly-veiled excuses to end up fondling each other disguised as "extra practice".

Nothing's happened. Not yet, at least. They're still feeling each other out (literally and figuratively). It's a different dynamic than the one they had a decade ago. They're still learning how to navigate this new territory.

"Javert? Pay attention, please."

There's a hand tapping his wrist, reminding him that he's holding over thirteen kilos above his head and was about to drop it. 

Javert clears his throat, then braces his right arm against the floor, forearm lifted at a right angle in preparation to lift himself off the practice mat.

The hand at his wrist slides down his arm, sensual in a way that _seems_ completely accidental, but isn't in the slightest. He grits his teeth, beyond finished pretending that he hasn't been nursing a hard-on for the past twenty minutes.

He hoists himself into the air using nothing but the strength of his right arm and bent left leg, eyes locked on the dumbbell held in his left hand above his head. He hears Valjean shift behind him, followed by warm breath exhaled just below his ear.

"Excellent. That's absolutely perfect. Hold it for another twenty seconds."

Javert shudders violently.

As he lowers himself back to the mat, Valjean slides the hand back up his left arm, graciously takes the dumbbell, then rises to return it to the rack in the corner. That done, Javert rolls over and braces himself on his forearms and toes in a plank, as per their routine.

Upon his return, Valjean kneels down beside him. He puts both hands on his own hips for a moment, a critical look on his face, before reaching out and placing them on Javert's hips instead.

"You're too high up. Don't stick your ass in the air like that. You want your entire body to run in a straight line from your shoulders to your toes. Down."

The hands apply pressure, carefully molding him into the shape Valjean intends. Javert clenches his eyes shut for a moment, his cheeks heating as his cock throbs between his legs. One glance down confirms that yes, there is a spectacular tent at the front of his shorts. Valjean still hasn't removed his hands.

The thumbs resting just above his hip bones suddenly press down, digging into the supple muscle. Javert makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. Valjean goes very still.

"What was that?"

"... nothing."

Silence reigns as his arms begin to shake.

Javert lowers himself to the practice mat, breathing slowly as he strives to maintain the unspoken status quo of the game.

There's a gentle tap on his thigh, and he instinctively obeys, pushing himself up into a plank again. This time, he consciously pays attention to keeping his body held in a line, as Valjean instructed.

The hand on his thigh doesn't move, and it feels almost as though Valjean's skin is hot enough to scald him through the fabric of his shorts. He twitches, though he doesn't try to move away. Instead, he bites his lower lip, and clenches his fingers together in front of him.

"Thirty more seconds."

If he were a less prideful sort, Javert imagines he might be making all sorts of pleas at this point. As it is, he stubbornly keeps his mouth shut and refuses to even let so much as a whimper escape.

Valjean's hand has moved, the long fingers curling against his inner thigh. 

Javert wonders if it's possible at his age to come without anyone even touching his cock. 

"Twenty seconds."

Sweat stands out on his brow, dripping onto the practice mat and drenching the collar of his shirt. His cock throbs in time with his escalating heartbeat. He pants shallowly through barely-parted lips.

"Ten seconds."

The fingers curled against his inner thigh remain where they are, constant and intimidating. It feels almost as though Valjean is staking a claim. The notion should scare the shit out of him. It doesn't.

He must have gotten distracted again, because he's jolted back to the present by a pair of lips brushing the sensitive shell of his ear.

"Done."

The fingers clench on his thigh, hard enough to bruise, and Javert's brain hazes white.

There's a sharp pain in his throat, and he's distantly aware that he just bellowed. His legs and arms give out, sending him crumpling forward onto the mat. He lies there, panting and stunned, gradually recognizing the spreading wetness against his groin for what it is. Javert shudders again, but can scarcely summon the energy to lift his head.

A broad hand comes to rest between his shoulder blades, and Javert slowly turns to rest his cheek on the mat, staring hazily at the man crouched beside him.

Valjean looks positively debauched, regardless of the fact that he wasn't even the one being taken apart. His lips are bitten and wet, his throat flushed an appealing red, and the front of his pants are tented obscenely. Javert's mouth waters the longer he stares at it.

"Christ ... look at you."

Javert feels a slow grin tugging at his lips.

"You should talk," he flicks his gaze over Valjean's form, then returns to the apex between his legs, the swollen curve made all the more obvious thanks to the fabric stretched tight by Valjean's kneeling position.

Their gazes eventually meet, and it's as if mutual understanding passes between them in an instant.

Neither of them lost the game.

This is just the beginning.


	2. so, won't you give this man his wings?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things continue to get heated and the boys come to an unforeseen agreement.

Once his limbs regain some semblance of coordination, Javert slowly reaches out, curling his hand against the solid warmth of Valjean's knee. He rubs his thumb over the curve of it, blinking slowly at the man crouched over him.

Valjean licks his reddened lips, and Javert finds himself staring for far longer than he really ought to. He thinks he knows what Valjean might be thinking. It's fortunate he's thinking the same thing.

"Do you want-" he gestures vaguely, unsure of how to phrase it when they've barely said more than a sentence to each other in the past hour.

Valjean, however, seems to understand perfectly, because he nods almost violently and starts pulling the waistband of his track pants down to his knees. 

Javert stares, mostly because he's allowed, and swallows when he catches sight of the swollen curve of Valjean's cock against his underclothes. There's a spreading stain where the head is pressed against the taut fabric and he can feel his mouth watering again. _Fuck_ , it's been way too long.

"C'mere," he half rolls over in order to grab hold of Valjean's hips and lead him so he's braced on hands and knees atop him; his groin almost level with Javert's head. Perfect.

Javert thumbs at the elastic of Valjean's waistband, then grabs hold of it with both hands and drags them down Valjean's legs until they tangle with the pants already halfway down his thighs. Valjean's cock slaps wetly against his belly, straining and hard enough that Javert would swear it looks painful. He takes it in one hand and squeezes carefully, earning himself a low groan far above his head.

He just stares at it, wondering if it should feel this not-weird to recognize someone's cock a decade later. He shoves that thought to the back of his mind, and instead concentrates on wringing as many breathless grunts and whimpers from the man braced over him as possible.

"Are you clean?" he pants out, pupils blown again despite having just come a few minutes prior.

There's a jerking nod from somewhere above his head that shakes Valjean's entire body. "I'd show you the bill but I don't exactly carry it around in my wallet."

"Shut up."

Javert grabs hold of Valjean's hip in his free hand, then carefully guides the head of Valjean's cock to his mouth.

It takes a bit of maneuvering to make for a comfortable fit, though he does manage. Valjean's not small by any means, but he's not impossible. Javert runs his tongue around the head, dipping beneath the frenulum a few times and earning himself a magnificent full-body shudder for his troubles. He grins around the mouthful of rigid flesh, then sets to work, bobbing his head at a manageable pace as Valjean groans obscenities above his head and tries to keep the thrusts to a minimum.

Once he's established something of a rhythm, Javert releases his hold on the base of Valjean's cock and grabs onto his flanks with both hands, kneading the malleable flesh and musculature beneath his fingers and coaxing Valjean to thrust a little more. 

When it's clear he's not getting the message across properly, Javert carefully pulls off, and gives the head of Valjean's cock a gentle lick.

"Come on, you idiot," he coaxes, still kneading Valjean's shivering muscles. "Come on, fuck my mouth."

Valjean lets out some sort of trembling howl at that, and Javert just manages to swallow him back down before his hips start pistoning like a well-oiled machine. Javert clenches his eyes shut, readjusting to the force of it, the power behind the thrusts into his mouth, then remembers to breathe through his nose and snaps his eyes back open.

The muscles across Valjean's stomach and hips ripple as he lifts himself up and down, making it look fucking effortless even as he pants and swears a blue streak above Javert's head. 

Javert risks releasing his hold on Valjean's flank with one hand, then moves it between the man's spread legs, gently stroking and squeezing the balls hanging swollen and heavy behind Valjean's cock. 

That earns him a low, drawn out moan.

He does it again, and Valjean makes a choked almost-sob before his hips jerk forward and he's coming down Javert's throat.

Javert swallows instinctively, his gag reflex too suppressed to react any differently. He grabs hold of Valjean's flanks with both hands again, helping him stay as still as possible to avoid choking him. 

Valjean groans one more time, then shudders, the aftershocks of his orgasm twitching across his skin. Javert strokes his upper thighs and hips, then makes a vaguely irritated sound when Valjean moves away and rolls onto the floor. The man sprawls onto his back, one arm flung wide and the other flopped lazily over his midriff.

He looks well and properly fucked out.

Javert wonders if he should be feeling as pleased with himself as he is. He decides the rumination on that particular point can wait till later.

"I don't think I want to know how many codes of conduct we just broke."

There's dead silence for about five seconds, then it's broken as Valjean bursts into startled laughter. 

Javert, much to his annoyance, feels his lips twitching up into an answering smile. Damn the man.

"No, you probably don't," Valjean agrees, still laughing as he stares up at the ceiling and crosses both arms over his stomach. "But, I do work here, so it's not like I'm going to be turning myself in for it."

Javert glances over and they hold eye contact for a few moments before dissolving into another round of stifled snickering. 

"Something tells me this won't be the last time, either," he raises a vaguely curious eyebrow at the ceiling.

Valjean makes a quietly derisive sound. "Or, you know, we could upgrade to a bed. Maybe."

He can hear Valjean turn to look at him, then slowly tilts his head to meet the man's gaze.

There's honesty in there, with a myriad collection of other things he can't quite pin down. Javert swallows, then offers a slow nod as they turn away again.

"We could. We definitely could."


End file.
